


What You Want

by yukiawison



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5664139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukiawison/pseuds/yukiawison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lied to Thomas that day he told him he could never give him what he wanted. He could. And he wanted to. But he was scared. And now that they were friends, a precarious friendship but a friendship nonetheless, it was harder to ignore what was so scary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Want

He lied to Thomas that day he told him he could never give him what he wanted. He could. And he wanted to. But he was scared. And now that they were friends, a precarious friendship but a friendship nonetheless, it was harder to ignore what was so scary.

"Mr. Kent, the gravy please," Carson's voice is sharp and impatient and Jimmy snaps to attention.

"Careful it's hot," Thomas says, coming up beside him. Their shoulders bump, and he quickly draws back. There are no casual touches anymore, not after the incident.

"Thank you Mr. Barrow," Jimmy replies, taking the tray carefully. He still has the faint traces of a bruise on his sharp cheekbone. He still remembers seeing Thomas's beat up face and his longing eyes, and small smile when the offer of friendship was on the table.

Later, when dinner is served and most of the staff is in bed, he sits  
down at the piano and practices the few pieces he knows by heart, some Chopin some Bach, he'd been quite proficient in his youth. Now the notes fall awkward and uncertain as he fumbles through the piece.

"Sounds good," Thomas is leaning on the door frame. "Play another."

Jimmy sighs, and resumes his fumbling.

Thomas sits down and pulls out his cigarettes. He lights one, well tries to light one. His hand keeps fumbling with the lighter and he curses at it angrily, wincing.

Jimmy stops playing. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"It's just my hand," he mutters, rubbing his gloved hand, face twisting with discomfort. "It gets stiff, and sore sometimes."

Thomas didn't talk about the war. His gloved hand was the only indication of his time in the trenches. And Jimmy didn't have the heart to ask.

Jimmy sits down beside him. "Can I see?" He asks gently, before the words could get stuck in his throat.

Thomas looks at him with surprise. "It's not pretty James." James, why call him James when he could call him Jimmy?

"I don't care," he replies. Thomas gives him one last worried look and removes the glove.

Scarred skin and misshapen knuckles greet him as Thomas stretches his sore fingers.

"What was it like?" He asks softly. "Were you scared?" He'd managed to miss the war. It had ended just before he was to be shipped out.

"Terrified," he admits after a moment. "It's hell in there. So much blood, so much grime. I..."

"You have nightmares...I know."

Thomas's eyes widen. "How do you...? Oh god do I scream in my sleep?"

"Sometimes. No one says anything." Thomas's face burns red and Jimmy almost regrets divulging this.

"It's okay. We all understand."

Thomas smirks. "As much as you can I suppose."

I can give you what you want. I'm dying to give you what you want.

"You should get to bed," he says, putting his glove back on and successfully lighting his cigarette. He takes a long drag, breathing out smoke and drawing Jimmy's attention to his lips.

His bruise still looks bad. And Jimmy still feels guilty.

"You're right. Goodnight Mr. Barrow."

He leaves him, cigarette still balanced in his long fingers.

The next morning Jimmy Kent steals looks at Mr. Barrow and his bruise over breakfast, and when their eyes meet, once on accident, he looks away first.

It rains in the afternoon and Thomas gets caught in it on the way back from an errand for Lord Grantham. His hair is damp and windswept and his pale face is flushed from the cold. He stands by the fire, warming himself and humming something Jimmy recognizes as the Chopin he likes to play.

That night he can hear Mr. Barrow screaming. He gets up and crosses the hall with quiet feet. He doesn't bother knocking.

"Mr. Barrow wake up it's a dream," he says, shaking him. "Everything's okay."

Thomas jolts awake, drenched in sweat and looking around wildly as if to confirm that he isn't in the trenches.

"You were, you were dead Jimmy. You were..." He hyperventilates, still dazed with sleep.

"It's okay, just breathe." He wraps his arms around him despite himself, holding him close to remind him that he isn't dead.

Thomas cries into his chest and Jimmy strokes his hair.

"You were all dead," he mutters. "There was so much blood."

"We're all okay Thomas. Everyone's okay."

He lets him cry and when he's through crying he lets him breathe wildly into his chest until he tires himself out and his breath becomes slow and even and full of sleep. He lays him back down and covers him up, brushing the sweat drenched hair from his forehead. He'll feel better tomorrow. He just needs some real rest.

"Thank you, for last night," he mutters in the hallway the next day. He looks better rested, though his eyes are still red.

"I owed you one," he shrugs, though his chest aches. I want what you want.

That night he goes back to Barrow's room. He's smoking and reading a magazine on his bed. He looks up when he comes in.

"James, what are you...?"

"I lied," he blurts.

"You what?" His eyebrows furrow.

"I can give you what you want. I want to."

Thomas is bright red. "I don't understand."

"Mr. Barrow can I kiss you?"

"James!" He nearly drops his cigarette.

"For God's sake call me Jimmy," he breathes. "I was scared. When you kissed me and I...liked it I got scared. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have treated you like shit."

"You didn't treat me like shit."

"I did and I'm sorry."

He puts out the cigarette. "You want to kiss me?"

Jimmy nods. "If you'll let me."

Thomas laughs, a breathless disbelieving laugh. "Yes, yes of course you can kiss me." And Jimmy joins him on the bed, and takes his gloved hand and leans in. He presses a kiss to his mouth. And Thomas kisses him back long and slow and fever inducing. Jimmy feels like he is floating, and the kiss deepens and he is straddling Thomas and their chests are pressing together. He breaks away breathless, panting, and waiting to see if Barrow will smile at him again.

"Well that was something Jimmy," he grins. "You're sure that's what you want?"

"I'm positive."

"Good," Thomas exhales. He leans in for another kiss. "Because it's definitely what I want."

When he wakes up, earlier than anyone else, Jimmy kisses Thomas on the forehead and tiptoes out of the room before he can wake up. At breakfast they share furtive glances and smiles.

"You aren't messing with me right? This isn't some sick joke," Thomas says through gritted teeth that night as Jimmy sits in front of the piano. He holds his cigarette defensively, smoking nervously.

"How could I do that? Do you really think that little of me?"

Thomas glowers at him. "No, but I'm not accustomed to kindness."

"Sit here next to me." He does, and Jimmy plays something gentle. Thomas leans his head on his shoulder, and Jimmy leans in to kiss his hair. And everything is okay again. It's still scary, how Jimmy's chest tightens whenever Thomas Barrow is near, but it's a fear he can manage now. It's a fear he welcomes.

**Author's Note:**

> I am trash. I just love Thomas so much.


End file.
